


Haberdashery

by dustandroses



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character Study, Community: tamingthemuse, Gen, NYC, Nikki Wood's Coat, One Shot, Original Character - Freeform, Post-Nikki Wood, Pre-Canon, Pre-Canon Spike, Punk Spike, Spike's Coat, Spike's Duster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/pseuds/dustandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike acquires a new coat, but it needs a few repairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haberdashery

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt Notes:** Inspiration for this fic taken from the Live Journal community Tamingthemuse prompt #399: Threadbare  
>  **Notes: Bespoke** \- tailored, custom-made suits and men's clothing. It's a British word, Americans say tailor-made.  
>  **Haberdasheries** sell sewing notions in Britain, but in the US they're tailor's shops and men's outfitters.  
>  As usual, much thanks to Ozsaur for the idea, and for challenging my muse by reminding her that this story shouldn't be much more than 500 words long.

**August 19, 1977**

The first time Jules saw Mr. Spike, he was scarcely more than a child. He’d been working on a suit for Mr. Greensworth, and had decided to stay late since he’d been busy all day at the counter, and hadn’t had the time he’d needed to finish. Mr. Allen was scheduled to critique his work tomorrow, and he wanted to have everything ready. After all, there were three shop assistants, and only the best of the three would become Mr. Allen’s new apprentice. His father would be so disappointed if he failed to get the position. He’d worked hard to give Jules his chance, and he didn’t want to let his father down.

He’d put up the closed sign, and he could have sworn that he’d locked the door, so it startled him when a young man dropped a bundle on the counter. He felt his stomach churn when he got a good look at the man; he was obviously a street punk. His bleached white hair stood in stiff peaks all over his head, and his cold blue eyes were lined with black. A safety pin pierced his left eyebrow, directly over a jagged scar. 

His black shirt was ripped at the neck and the sleeves torn out. One pale arm had silver chains wrapped around the wrist, the other a thick black leather band with metal spikes, and both hands sported heavy rings and black fingernail polish. Jules was used to seeing this sort hanging out in the park outside his high school, smoking cigarettes and selling drugs to the students, but he’d never expected to see one in Allen’s Bespoke Suits and Haberdashery.

The man sniffed, a look of supreme boredom on his face that was belied by the tenseness in his well-muscled arms and shoulders. His sharp eyes traveled the shop, and Jules swallowed when he realized that he was alone with a punk who’d probably rather beat him senseless than buy a suit or a tie. He looked Jules up and down, and raised his pierced eyebrow expectantly.

Belatedly, Jules jumped down off his stool, automatically sticking the needle into the fabric of the suit jacket he held, and placing them on the table beside him. He stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice even as he spoke. 

“Can I help you, sir?” There, that wasn’t too bad. His voice had wavered slightly, but he’d gotten the whole sentence out without it cracking, and that was impressive, under the circumstances.

“Yeah. Got a coat here needs repairing. The hem of the lining is coming out, and the armpits, the neck, and the wrists are all frayed, see?” His coarse English accent startled Jules, and it took him a few moments to realize he was expected to look down at the black leather coat spread out over the counter. He was relieved to realize that the man actually wanted a service he could provide, and didn’t want to try and steal the money that the store manager had locked in the safe before he’d left for the day.

The lining at the wrists was indeed threadbare, and Jules started making a list of what needed to be done: the missing buttons, the pocket linings, the coat lining, two added pockets inside the lining, a side seam in the leather itself. When he came across the bloodstain, and the accompanying slice that likely came from a knife, Jules’ lunch almost came back up, but he swallowed hard, and gamely continued his list.

When they were done, Mr. Spike took the receipt Jules handed him, and cocked his eyebrow again. “Bespoke Suits and Haberdashery, eh? Didn’t realize anyone knew what a bespoke suit was here in the States.”

“Mr. Allen is originally from London, sir. He came here in the forties, and has been here in New York ever since. We get a lot of gentlemen from England; they say Mr. Allen’s accent reminds them of home.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “I thought perhaps that was why you chose our shop.”

“Nah. Just saw your light on, is all. Not too many tailors open this time of night.” When he grinned he looked almost feral, and a shiver ran up Jules’ spine. “Besides, I’m sure if Mr. Allen heard my accent, he’d probably put another lock on the door.” He winked, and suddenly he didn't seem so dangerous anymore - just another guy out running errands. "So don’t tell him until after I pick up my coat, right?” 

Jules couldn't help but smile. “Yes, sir.” He had an idea why Mr. Spike's accent might alarm Mr. Allen, but he didn’t want to insult the man by asking if he was from a bad part of town, so he kept his peace.

Mr. Spike walked to the door before he turned back. “See you same time, next week.” The door closed behind him.

Jules followed him to the front to lock the door, but he couldn't see which direction Mr. Spike had headed. He was already gone.

* * *

**August 26, 1977**

It was dark and rainy out, but it didn’t matter, nothing could spoil Jules’ good mood. He had resigned himself to staying late to make sure Mr. Spike got his coat, when all he wanted to do was take his girlfriend Alice to the ice cream parlor to celebrate his new status as Mr. Allen’s apprentice. His father would be so proud, as soon as Jules could get home and tell him.

Despite the thunderstorm, the store had been busy all day, and it seemed that every customer had a bad attitude. There were many benefits that went along with his new position, but in his eyes, the biggest was that Friday would be his last day of working the counter. Handing change to the woman who’d just spent an hour picking out a pair of men’s socks, Jules looked behind her to the next customer. He recognized the man, but knowing that he looked down on everyone, with the possible exception of Mr. Allen, Jules always went out of his way to help him as little as possible. 

In his snottiest London accent, the man spoke, “Gregory Smythe-Waterson. I’m here to pick up my new suit. That’s Smythe: S. M. _Y._ T. H. E.” He stressed the “Y” – stretching it out long enough for Jules to roll his eyes, if he hadn’t been behind the counter, that was. But that was okay, Mr. Spike, who walked up just then, did it for him. Jules hid his smile with difficulty.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Smythe-Waterson, I’ll send a boy back for it now.” He sent the new boy replacing him at the counter back for the suit, and looked past Smythe-Waterson at Mr. Spike. 

Spike shouldered his way around Smythe-Waterson, and said in a cultured voice that clashed with his punk hair and clothing, “I’m here to pick up my duster. That’s Spike. S. P. _I._ K. E.,” exaggerating the “I” in the middle of his name, with a sparkle in his blue eyes. 

Jules smiled broadly at Mr. Spike, barely holding back his laughter, “Of course, Mr. Spike, I’ll get that for you right now.” He walked away chuckling. When he got to the back room, the boy was searching frantically in the wrong section for Mr. Smythe-Waterson’s suit, but Jules didn’t set him right, just pulled Mr. Spike’s coat off the rack, and came back out, ignoring Smythe-Waterson’s angry glare.

Spike paid for it, and immediately set the hanger on the counter. It was warm for that kind of heavy coat, but who was he to say? As Mr. Allen said, the customer was always right. As Jules helped him on with his coat he said, “I’m surprised to see you so early, Mr. Spike. I didn’t expect you until later.”

Spike shrugged. “Yeah, well, I can’t always get out this early in the day, but I took advantage of the rain. Can’t even _see_ the sun out, today.” He exaggerated his regular accent, this time, and winked as he handed Jules a hefty tip. “Looks great, mate. Ya done a good job.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad you think so.”

“I’ll be back the next time I need work done on it.” Then he grinned. “See you in twenty or thirty years.” With that, he turned, and with a swirl of his coat, he was gone.

Jules turned to the back room, shaking his head. He supposed he ought to help that idiot boy find Smythe-Waterson’s suit.

* * *

**September 22, 2007**

Jules followed the last customer to the door, ready to lock up for the night. The shop usually stayed open later on Wednesdays; more people than might be expected prefered to do their shopping in the evenings. But his son, Richard, had a ballgame tonight, and none of his employees could stay late this week, so he needed to close up earlier than usual. 

Looking out the door, he could have sworn he was seeing a ghost. His bleached blond hair was combed back, instead of sticking up in peaks all over his head, but other than that, he looked exactly the same. Pale white skin, sharp cheekbones in a thin face, black shirt, even the same boots he’d worn a good thirty years before – he could have sworn it was the same man. But that couldn’t be. Jules hadn’t thought of the man in years, even though he was the one who’d inspired Jules to talk Mr. Allen into keeping late hours one night a week. But that had been years ago, back before Allen had retired, and Jules had taken over the shop.

He stepped back out of the way when the man walked in, accompanied by a dark haired man with a black leather eyepatch over one eye, and wearing a brown leather bomber jacket. They both looked dangerous, and Jules swallowed, thankful he only kept a few small bills in the register. In this day and age, most everyone used credit cards. The dark haired man looked around nonchalantly, checking out the ready-to-wear casual shirts hanging on one rack, but the blond went straight to the counter, and slipped out of his long leather coat.

There were no safety pins through the scar on his eyebrow, and no rings or chains on his hands or wrists, but when he started speaking, Jules felt as if he was being pushed backwards through time.

“The lining of this coat needs replacing,” he said in a coarse English accent. “Had this coat less than five years, now, and look at this hem.” 

The disgust in his voice was aimed at the coat, but Jules took it personally. He’d sewn that lining himself. Then his mind caught up with his indignation, and he realized what the man had said.

“Five years?”

“Yeah, you believe that? Had my old coat twenty-five years, and only had to replace the lining once, but look at this!”

“What happened to the old one?” Jules hated to ask, but his morbid curiosity wouldn’t be stifled. 

The brunet over in the racks snickered, and the blond rolled his eyes. “It got blown up in Rome,” he said with a frown, “long story, don’t ask.” He sighed. “I miss that coat.” 

Twenty-five years. The man barely looked twenty-five, now. But he’d looked exactly the same thirty years ago. He wasn’t sure how that could be, but Jules knew it was so.

“So you think you can fix it, so he’ll stop whining about it?” the other man asked. 

“Shut up, Harris.”

“Stop whining, and I will, Spike.” The two glared at each other, but it didn’t look like they were serious about it. More like it was a game they played.

Their bickering gave Jules a minute to think. Spike. That had been the name. He’d been right, it _was_ the same man. Jules found his voice. “I can do it. I did it thirty years ago, I can do it now.”

“It was you, was it? I thought this was the same shop.” Spike eyed him critically, as if he wasn’t sure how Jules would take this conversation. 

Jules smiled, shakily. “It was me. I’m not sure how, but I recognize you, Mr. Spike. I’ll get the order written up.”

As he turned to get his order pad, Harris snickered. “Did he call you _Mister_ Spike?”

“Blow it out your ear, Harris.”

Jules locked the door behind them, still bickering as they walked down the street together. Vampires. _Great_. He could have gone his entire life without learning about vampires. One more thing to worry about; as if death and taxes weren’t enough.

He thought about what it would be like to never grow old, but he decided he didn’t like the idea. It was the natural order of things. He had a wife who loved him, three children he was extremely proud of, and his own haberdashery. If he never grew old, what would happen when it came time for Richard to take over the shop? He wanted to retire some day, and grow old with his wife. He wanted grandchildren, and great grand-children, and he had a feeling that Spike would have none of that. 

It might seem that Spike was lucky, but Jules got the idea that _he_ was really the lucky one.


End file.
